


When Interviews Reveal More than Crime Scenes

by SouthronWildling



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, DID not the unsub, Dissociative Identity Disorder, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthronWildling/pseuds/SouthronWildling
Summary: Rossi has been assigned to interview family members of people abducted by an UnSub who has kept a prisoner longer than usual.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Criminal Minds is a great show, and I own no part of it. That being said, it seriously annoys me how often it has turned the diagnosis of Dissociative Personality Disorder as a trope for UnSubs. People with DID are almost never violent, and are very prone to re-victimization. The few who have claimed the diagnosis as a defense for criminal acts have nearly entirely been discredited.

It was while interviewing the husband of the third abduction victim that Rossi began to have a sinking feeling. THe UnSub had abducted three women, each a week apart, from a rural community outside of Joplin, Missouri, and while the first two had been found in ditches bordering the soybean and corn fields with their arms folded across their chests and nickels placed over their eyes a week apart (a day before the next victim had been taken), it had been nine days since the last woman had been taken. The team had only been in town four hours, and the local police seemed hostile.

"So what is your wife like, Mr. Coulson?" he asked.

Darren Coulson gave a small shrug and fanned his fingers out in an implacatory gesture. Rossi narrowed his eyes but quickly schooled his expression into one of measured calm.

"I mean, she's like... e'rbody? She keeps house, cooks, she likes sewing quilts. Don't go out the house much." Darren's body language shifted again and he curled into himself. "She didn't do nothing wrong to deserve being taken, if that's what you're sayin'."

"No, we're not saying she did anything wrong. We look at the victims to get a sense of what the bad guys are thinking, why they choose one person instead of another. Sometimes they like people who fit a certain look, for instance. This one doesn't, as far as we can tell. It helps us figure out who they are." The first victim had been a natural blonde, the second a bottle blonde, and this third was a brunette. Their body shapes weren't similar either, and he'd crossed socio-economic parameters. Victimology wasn't shaping up; this interview could unlock it.

"I dunno what you want me to say." Darren looked defeated, shoulders slumped with one hand coming up to press against his eye.

"Did Melissa have anything that stood out? Something that she did, but few others did? Anywhere she went, that wasn't typical for here, or hobbies? Quilting is common, I gather, but anything else?" 

"She uhh... She wouldn't want me discussing it," Darren said. "It's... we don't talk about it. It's the only thing she does outside of grocery shopping, but.... nah."

"What?"

"The New Hope Center, downtown? She goes there once a week. She's uh.. Well. She's a good person, and she's not crazy, you understand? But she has her sessions there on Thursdays."

Rossi nodded encouragingly, and Darren grimaced and shook his head.

"Melissa... She's a good girl, you know? But shit happens, sometimes. Ain't her fault, and I never judged her none for it. I just wanted her to be safe."

"Safe from what, exactly?" Rossi asked, leaning forward just slightly. "Was she in danger?"

"Nah, her uncle died ten years ago, but she was still messed up over it. They said she had DID? And sometimes it was Melissa and sometimes it waddn't. But I love her, you know? She's er'ything," Darren said. He shook his head again. "If he's got her, I dunno, man. She's sweet when she's Melissa, but sometimes? I dunno."

Rossi's eyes narrowed, and flicked up to the one-way mirror in the interrogation room.

"She's got alters?" he asked.

"Yeah, like she calls 'em parts, but yeah. Two or three kids, a few others. I know some of their names but it's whatever. Melissa wants to be back home. She don't want to go outside; she don't wanna be wherever she is. She don't wanna be nowhere but in the house."

"Ok, wait here for me." Rossi said, hitting the button on his cellphone a second later as he stepped into the corridor.

"Garcia, Melissa has no living relatives, so who was she close enough to that she'd call him Uncle?" The hallway seemed preternaturally quiet after the interrogation room. Rossi tried to shrug it off and listened to Penelope's banter and the clicking of her fingers over computer keys.

"I'm not seeing anyone; she had an uncle that died a little over nine years ago, but he's clean as a whistle if you don't count a DUI in 1977. Nothing else."

"Family friends that died? Anyone too close, and in the Uncle Creepy variety?"

"Typing at the speed of light," Penelope answered.

"No, this isn't a relative. This is someone she was coached into calling family."

"Dave? If she's decompensating--"

"No," Rossi cut Hotch off with a shake of his head. "She doesn't know what she experienced, but she knows who did it. She's unarmed, as far as we know. We play this out."

Rossi had a theory. At the center of it lay a woman who was still missing, who had multiple personalities (excuse me, dissociative parts for the current nomenclature), and who had been missing for two days longer than any victim this UnSub had taken in the past.

"Darren, tell me about Melissa's usual routine."

"She had her therapy session on Thursdays. 4 to 5 pm, you know? And then she'd pick up Chinese usually, because she didn't feel like cooking afterwards. She'd pick it up at Wok Tun. Um... She got lo mein for herself and either sweet and sour chicken or beef and broccoli for me. She went to Kroger on Tuesdays. She slept a lot, I guess. Maybe once a month she might hit up Walmart for shit like toilet paper, I dunno."

"That's good," Rossi answered, and watched as Darren sort of collapsed in his chair. "Did she have friends that she talked to?"

"No, she's pretty quiet. She don't like talking to others much."

"Can you tell me about her parts? I take it, you knew them?"

"Uhh... she wouldn't like me talking about that. She's private, and she considers that private, y'know?"

"Yes, I know. But we need to know, because it may be why the UnSub has broken routine and not released her yet. We need to know what makes her different from the other women he's taken."

"Melissa doesn't... God, I dunno. I can give you Carl's number, he's her therapist, right? Um, but she's got like 20, I dunno, only a few show up on the regular. She's got kid parts, couple of 'em, and then the ones that take care of the house and shit? She's got a dude.... I dunno, what do you want to know?"

"Melissa has seventeen alters that we've identified. Most don't present themselves unless there's a specific trigger or traumatic memory associated." Carl Jenson's demeanor was professional, for all that his khaki slacks were fraying at the hems and his loafers had seen better days. "Her defensive mechanisms are very well-built. If she's been taken by your abductor, she's likely barricaded herself behind disocciative walls and won't be easily located, psychologically."

"What does that mean, from a pragmatic viewpoint?" Rossi asked.

"Melissa is a submissive female, socially awkward, highly intelligent, but introverted and non-violent. That said, Melissa, as we know her, may not be accessible," the man said with a shrug. It wasn't dismissive, but rather resigned. "If she switched, which is highly likely, you're not looking for a 40 year old woman named Melissa anymore. I have no way of knowing which alter she may have switched to, and each one would pose their own victimology. I've done a bit of reading into what you look for. It all depends."

"I realise this is conjecture, but if you had to guess?"

"If he's sexually motivated, whether sadistic or not, she probably switched first to a younger ego-state. She has four that I know of, at ages four, six, and nine. She also has one that proclaims to be eleven, but seems to slide developmentally. The child alter would try to appease the abductor, but if she found herself still in danger, she might switch again. At that point, I am not sure what would happen."

"He is sexually motivated, judging from his prior victims. Why are you uncertain about the latest switch, in that case?" Rossi asked.

"Because I don't know who would show up at that point. Melissa has a couple of what we call protective alters. Melvin is a male alter. As far as I can tell, he protects the system by taking pain for the others. He can't feel pain in a vagina that he doesn't have, for instance, and he's told me before that he doesn't really feel pain anywhere. But Melvin is only defensive. Lester is another alter that is more violent, albeit only defensively. Lester won't hesitate to defend or attack if the system is in danger, although she has never attacked anyone first."

"Wait... Lester is a woman?" Rossi's voice betrayed his disbelief.

"There's often crossover between gender-identification and alter presentation in DID patients. But yes, Lester is a woman. And she's dangerous, I can tell you that. Her initial response is to use inflammatory language to try to repel threats, but she will attack if cornered, and she's the type to claw someone's eyes out if necessary."


	2. Chapter 2

"So," Hotch said when Rossi entered the room. "Dissociative state has the vic and takes them to an--," but he's broken off by Rossi.

"No."

"What? This is almost classic. DID already diagnosed? We don't even have to delve into Garcia territory," he said with a shrug.

"It's not that at all. Melissa isn't the unsub, she's a victim. Look at the victimology. Every woman was taken after visiting the grocery store. Car left intact, all the food there. Just the woman gone. That speaks to a male unsub, not female. Even if Melissa is presenting male at the moment, it still still doesn't work. The therapist and her husband said her male alter was a caretaker. Would a caretaker, even if male, leave frozen groceries to thaw out?"

Slight twitch in an eyebrow, corner of a lip. "Probably not," Aaron decided. "So where is she being held? Its going to be home-like, but isolated. We're in a rural environment, so that's extensive. He needs room to hold them, space so they're not seen or heard. And nothing but farmhouses and corn and soybeans in every direction. Someone who picks his victims from Aldi's." The younger man shook his head.

"There's too many variables."

"So why do you think he hasn't killed her yet?" Hotch's voice was quiet, resigned.

"Because whatever she or one of her alters is doing... he likes it. She isn't ruining the fantasy. At least, not yet."

CMCMCMCMCMCM

Lissa tugged at the rope that tied her to the wooden beam and shifted onto her left hip. Her wrists were hurting, and no matter how she twisted them, the twine didn't loosen. She sighed and wondered when The Man would be back. It might be a few minutes. It might be days. It might be forever or now. She knew her perception of time was weird.

_ "It's a clock, just look at it. What time is it? What do you mean, January? It's April, Stupid!"_

But they didn't know how time could melt. A lot of time had melted in this room. Lissa worried her bottom lip with her teeth and pulled her legs back up again. Dirt floor, but there were wooden stairs. The Man had left an oil lamp for her and it hadn't gone out yet. She hadn't seen any spiders yet, so that was good. He'd been nice, for the most part, nicer than.... well, he'd been nice. Lamp and no spiders, but the rope on her wrists hurt and she wished she could get loose and run, anyways. 

_Storm cellar,_ she thought, looking at the cinderblock walls and the trapdoor at the top of the stairs._ Ain't no tornados.._. But the trapdoor was opening, a flash of late afternoon sunlight glancing across the steps, the dirt floor, her toes and the ankle of her left foot. Sunlight that was quickly cut off again, as The Man clambered through the opening and shut the trap door behind him as he came down the stairs.

"Ophelia? I brought you something to eat," The Man said. Lissa took the sandwich he handed her and took a bite. Tuna salad on wheat and she liked white better but she didn't complain and just chewed and swallowed instead.

"Ophelia?"

"...did ya want me to feel ya?" Lissa whispered. She cut her eyes at him and then back down at the sandwich in her hands. She knew how the game was supposed to work, but The Man wasn't starting it right. The three bites of sandwich she'd eaten felt like lead in her stomach and she hoped she wouldn't throw up. That was always, _always_ bad.

"No, I want you to BE Ophelia," the man said. He stroked her hair, prodded her hand to lift so that she could eat another bite.

Lissa did, then swallowed and licked her lips nervously. "But I'm Lissa, not 'phelia. But I'm good, I can do it right, anything you want, I know I can. I can make you happy. I can--" but time melted then and Lissa went to sleep.

Melvin couldn't afford the luxury of sleep. But nothing hurt, either. The Man had his way and went back up through the hatch. Melvin glared at it and worried the knots tying his hands together with his teeth. Time to get out. Fibers caught in his teeth and Melvin gagged and spat until the fibers were on the dirt floor. His wrists were still bound.

CMCMCMCMCMCM  
  


When the profile was given, it wasn't to great fanfare and media coverage, but to four deputies and a sheriff. 

"The UnSub is probably already known to all of you, given the low population density. He's in his 40s, maybe early 50s. He's introverted. He is socially comfortable enough to have small talk, to make his victims not afraid of him on sight, but he's not so skilled that he can take them out without some subterfuge. He's not physically imposing but he wishes he was. He has interest in greek or roman burial rituals, given the coins over the eyelids, which combined with the way he stages his victims, are a sign of remorse.

"That is not to say that he will not do it again. Each victim fails to fulfill his fantasy in some manner, and while he completes it, he won't be satisfied until the fantasy is satisfied. Right now, Melissa Joyner is fulfilling that fantasy, and she is in danger until either we find her or she fails to satisfy him. 

"He has the space and time to keep his victims secret. He's educated and intelligent. He has a compulsion with these women. He probably had a love affair go wrong in his late teens."

Hotch hated it when he had to give the profile by himself. It was so exposing, even when there weren't cameras present. 

CMCMCMCM

"I keep thinking the staging is important."

"What do you mean? In a ditch with quarters on their eyes?"

"Actually, yes. Joplin is very prone to flash flooding during severe storms, and both of the bodies were laid out in ditches. They had coins on their eyelids. That's symbolic of the coins required for crossing into the underworld."

"Do you have a theory, then?" Rossi asked.

"Actually, no," Reid answered. "Not with how everything is laid out. Not yet," he said. He drew his shirt off and tossed it in the corner, then his undershirt. "Do you? It's all so very regimented, methodical, and I can't quite see it."

"No. I just see women dead. And this woman, maybe not yet dead."

"Shh. Let me, for once."

Rossi was quiet, and when a wet warmth enclosed his length, he stayed silent for several minutes as he was worked towards climax with an expertise he'd never questioned. Pressure built, and he felt his release as a quiet outpouring of tension rather than any slating of lust. The sensation left him boneless and he gathered the angular body of Spencer into his arms a bit awkwardly.

A heavy sigh followed deep breaths, and he murmured, "Give me a moment and I'll--"

"You needed it more than I did. Sleep. Maybe something will occur to one of us in the morning."

CMCMCMCM

Melvin was ready. The twine around his wrists looked like it was still tied, but he'd worked the knots apart with his teeth and while he hadn't managed to completely undo them, he had enough slack to work with. 

CMCMCMCM

"Alright, let's regroup. Obviously, we're missing something," Hotchner said, looking around at his team as they sipped coffee around the table. 

"The staging of the bodies is interesting. The placement of coins over the eyes would indicate either Greek or Roman mythology, but some Appalachian enclaves also hold to those beliefs. We could look at people who have moved here from that region, maybe?" Reid seemed more tentative than usual.

"There's obviously guilt involved. Otherwise, why lay the bodies out in that manner?" Derek. Derek, forever stating the obvious until he didn't.

"Mhhhh," Rossi breathed. "Why ditches? Why laid out so perfectly, but in ditches along roadsides? I think that might actually be significant, but I don't have a reason why. It's just... they're laid out so carefully."

Hotch shook his head and then hit the speed-dial on his phone.

"Office of Ever-expanding Wonder, question at your own peril."

Hotch gritted his teeth, then exhaled. "Garcia, you're on speaker. Can you come up with anything relating to bodies, ditches, and the coins on eyes? Historical, or previous unsubs. We're fishing."

"I am typing faster than Han Solo could make the Kessel Run. Buzz you back in a bit." 

CMCMCMCMCM

Lester was lurking. Melvin was dealing with HIM. Lester was watching.

Lester liked to lurk. But Lester also liked to punish. Melvin was shoving her back, like a hand flapped flapped backwards, _I've got this, go on..._

But she watched. She saw. She saw it all. She saw the cock that went in. Lester waited.

She waited.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sir, I may have found something."

Hotch hit the speaker button on his phone. "We're all listening, go ahead."

"So Rossi said he thought there was an uncle creepy, but not an actual uncle, connected to Melissa Joyner. And Reid said there might be an Appalachian tie-in. And it's such a creepy thing, with the nickels on the eyes and all, and I got to thinking, it might not just be a Greco-Roman thing but more a mountain thing, and that led me down one of the strangest rabbit holes I've ever been in, barring a few late night Google-"

"Garcia," Hotch cut her off sharply.

"Right. So," there was a pause as she took a deep breath. "There was a man, Kenneth Dresden. Born 1954 in a rural community about fifty miles north of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Grew up there, but moved to Missouri in the late 70s. I've got tax records and local newspaper blurbs; he worked at the same chicken plant as Melissa's father, and he attended the same church as the family did. I can't connect them with anything closer, but it's likely they knew each other. He stayed in Missouri for about twenty-five years, then seemed to migrate back and forth between Missouri and Tennessee after that. He died eleven years ago in Joplin, apparent heart attack, he was found four days post-mortem when neighbors called in for a wellness check. And he had one arrest record, for exposing himself to a minor, which he was never prosecuted for because there wasn't enough evidence."

"Garcia, can you tell who he might have exposed himself to?" Rossi spoke up.

"The names are all redacted, but a nine year old boy."

"So we have Melissa's abuser. I'd lay down last year's book royalties that the UnSub knew him as well. Any other connections between this Dresden and this area?"

"Too many to count, really. Church, civic clubs, he joined and volunteered a lot, it looks like, although I don't see much that was too noteworthy. He wasn't in charge, just participating."

"Thanks, Garcia. We'll be in touch." Hotch ended the call.

"All of this information, and we're still no closer to catching him. Find a man who was victimized by the same pedophile thirty years ago, in a spread out rural community? We'd be better off trying to identify BTK," Spencer tossed a pen down on the table and got up, staring at the evidence board as if some answer might jump out at him when nothing had for the last 48 hours.

CMCMCMCMC

It was a struggle. Melvin could feel Lester hovering in the background; he could feel the rage, disconnected from himself but still close enough to taste a little, close enough to scorch at the edges. Singe the flesh, scent of burnt skin and a faraway scream, sensory ability shoved into quiet and then followed by scent of burnt hair, bangs curled and teased and coated in aqua net and then incinerated when lighting a cigarette led to disaster. _Not yet,_ he thought/sent. _If it doesn't work, we all die._ A mental image of snow falling, smoke rising from a bonfire, little children dancing in a circle to collapse on the ground, childish voices chant-singing ashes, ashes, we all fall down! came back to him. Claws ripped through flesh, rivers of blood poured forth. Melvin didn't feel anger, and the violent images made him uneasy. They felt like a folding back in, folding back and giving in to what was being done, rage and violence and he wanted nothing to do with any of it. 

_Not yet,_ he sent again. The Man was using him again and he lifted his left leg, to ease the pressure off his hip, and tuned out the breaths panting against his neck. There was no danger in that. No danger in shifting again, so that his hips were canted against the ones thrusting against him. It made it easier, and it wasn't like he could actually feel any of it anyways. The little things, sure; heavy weight pressing him down, the stretch of his thighs and hips. But whatever. He wished Lester would leave off. It was too hard keeping everyone together but apart like this and Lester was making it more difficult.

The Man was coming. Melvin felt Lester draw away in disgust, felt her leave and sighed in relief. When The Man started stroking his hair again, Melvin schooled his face. 

"Just beautiful," The Man said. He withdrew and Melvin drew his legs together again without wincing. Nothing hurt, after all. He arched his neck and then tilted his chin so that a few neck vertebrae popped.

"Am I?"

"Oh, Ophelia, so very beautiful. You have no idea."

"You have no idea how good I could make you feel. I want to touch you, to love you. Why won't you let me?" he asked, lifting his bound wrists only slightly. Soft, soft, go soft and he might....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quoting Vonnegut in Hocus Pocus. "It's very quiet in here. Hello? Hello?"
> 
> Got a few kudos, and a few subscribers, which is great, but... I'm insecure, not gonna lie. It's not my usual type of story. This is my first foray into this fandom. I would absolutely love to know what you think, even if it's negative (all I can do is learn and improve). Please leave me a little comment so I know if I'm going off-course or providing the case-fic with stuff that you like. Oh, and there'll be some very smutty Rossi/Reid at the end, in case you were worried. They'll need to work out their tensions after the case is solved, of course.


End file.
